They spent the remainder of that day preparing. Weapons were tended to, gear repaired, and they divided up the gear Naran had purchased. Ropes and pitons to deal with any hidden pits, helmets with brackets for small lights, and thick leather pads to protect their knees and elbows if they found themselves moving through cramped tunnels. As they sat in the yard of the House, adjusting fittings and weights, Felix chuckled, as he often did.
“You know the paper we got says we not goin’ in ourselves right?” his disbelief clear in the voice.
“Better we prepare for any eventuality Sir Felix” replied Fuath, speaking quite clearly despite the leather strap in his mouth between the jaws. His head had proved too oddly shaped for the helmets straps, with no proper chin to hold it in place and the spherical shape allowing the straps no purchase. He seemed quite happy with the arrangement, even as his mouth hung open, though his speech was unaffected.
“Not wrong” muttered Winifred. She dropped to one knee, as if slamming it down on something. The thick kneepad kicked out a plume of dust, but she seemed satisfied. “If nothing else some of this might be handy to hold onto, just in case.”
Naran and Wakesfield were silent. They were focused on the gear, silently adjusting and helping the others adjust where needed.
“So what’s our fight plan if we get into it anyway? Marchin’ orders? Tactics?” the four turned to look at Felix, evidently expecting more, and he sighed. He took the empty pipe from his mouth and set it aside while he worked on his half armoured arm. The gauntlet he had purchased came just shy of the elbow, and he was trying to find a happy medium where his elbow would be protected if he crawled. He carefully examined where the leather and armour were not agreeing, and took up a small blade, carving away leather to fit better. “Look, we did well enough the other day. But we try wingin’ it down in some tunnels we liable to smack or trip over each other. So we best set out who’s doing what. Someone take the lead, call the shots, who watchin’ our asses, that type of thing.” He looked around at the staring faces. “What? Never fought in a team before?”
Fuath shook his head. Wakesfield adjusted his glasses silently. Naran slowly shook her head. She was used to taking her time with each decision, and a speaker was apart from the tribe, given meat when needed without joining the hunt. When she had headed out there had only been herself and at most one other, old Gantulga or her husband Batu. She smiled at the private memories. In both cases the hunt had not been the point, though both men had very different goals when they went with her. Winifred offered that she was used to working with Culann, giving orders, though she withered a little and apologised once she caught the implication of the comparison. They turned to look at Felix, who sighed.
“Yeah I fought in a team, but only the odd time. Was usually an ‘Every man for himself’ type of deal. No one got any experience?”
There was silence, and Wakesfield coughed. “I…can be the one to call out if needed. Though I can’t promise I can make the best tactical decisions.”
Fuath gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Saint Augustine said ‘A chipped pot is better than a broken pot’, I’m sure you’ll do admirably sir.” They looked at him quizzically, which he seemed oblivious to.
“I think i…HE means a bad call is better than no call?” offered Winifred, which got an approving nod from Fuath.
Naran nodded as she worked a strap on her leg. “A bad plan with all behind it will have more success than five good ones we try at the same time.”
“Well put” said Felix. “So Mister Wakesfield, we’ll listen for your callouts, and you do yer best.”
Wakesfield said nothing, and worked on the straps, helping with straps at the back of Naran’s legs.
They passed the next day and half in rest and final preparations. Wakesfield had taken over a small section of the yard, dragging one of his travel chests into a corner and working with small sheets of metal, black powder satchels and a selection of tools he produced from the chest. He insisted he not be watched, saying something about privacy and would sit silently with a curtain over his work if anyone approached. He only allowed Naran to approach once, as he worked a new barrel onto the stock of his rifle. It was thicker and shorter than the original he had carefully removed and placed to one side, the barrel yawning wider. Naran assisted him silently, assuming he would explain if it was necessary as she tightened and secured where he indicated. She saw how his hands trembled from the press for cutting shapes from the metal. He was feeling his age no doubt.
Felix was an object of some amusement. Wakesfield had given him some illustrations, sketches showing stretches he was to focus on. They had talked at some length about Felix’ weakness. He was in quite good condition for his age but his joints had stiffened and he had far less stamina than his younger self. The stretches were ridiculous, Felix thought, not even any extra weight added. Nonetheless, he could feel himself sweating as he held each pose, muscles gently waking up after years of not being used for much. The morning of the excursion he would feel a slight difference, the usual stiffness in his joints not needing the same amount of knocking as usual to loosen.
Fuath was spending most of his time at the temple, tending to his comrade Richard or whatever chores the temple needed doing at the time. He was content to be useful, and each night when he would lay to rest in the House he would silently beam with excitement at the adventure ahead.
Naran and Winifred had discovered the library of the House, a massive sprawl of bookcases and archives spilling into several storerooms. They had dived in, seeking any information they could, though they spoke little. Naran focused her search on their upcoming task, seeking any literature that may be useful. She still read slowly, but a day and a half of uninterrupted reading was helping her improve. Winifred took books seemingly at random. She knew nothing about the continent, and seemed happy to absorb anything she could. History, yellowed newspapers, fiction collections, all piled around her at the table they shared. Partway through the day before they left, she stepped out for a few hours and returned with her wolfhound bounding at her heel, silently wagging his long tail at their reunion. Despite Naran’s initial concern Culann was an ideal guest in the library, content to sit at his mistress’ feet for hours, silently pushing his snout against her leg when he needed to go out.
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In a blink, the day had arrived. They checked their bags one last time, packed with just the essentials, and that their weapons were secure. They ate little (with the exception of Fuath), their collective nerves affecting their appetite. The promises of payment seemed less tantalising now, and the gravity of what they had agreed to was weighing on them. They silently ate what they could, and stepped into the yard. There were four carts total, uncovered wagons pulled by two horses each. The drivers sat idle, ready to head out. The Skull Smashers stood by the nearest wagon, looking far more impressive in their proper gear. Three of them were clad in steel armour, blackened by soot or paint. The ogre Druzk gave them a friendly wave, her armour clanking loudly. Two other groups stood ready. One was a group of four, all in matching armour. It was bronzed and shone in the early sun, with sculpted muscled and snarling faces. They stood in a line, standing formal, and made no acknowledgement of the five. The other was a more ragtag group than either, another four lead by the dwarf Flint, who gave them a knowing salute and a wink. He had a brace of pistols across his chest, and twin curved blades at his waist. His companions, a Scalefolk and two Midfolk were more conservatively dressed, simple armour and plain weapons. They looked at the five as the entered the yard but made no moves to introduce themselves. The five took the cue and silently stood by the empty wagon, awaiting whatever signal.
They did not wait long. The orc Uzul looked at a pocket watch hidden in a recess of the armour somewhere, and produced a small whistle. At the shrill tone, the groups turned and mounted the wagons, the five following the lead of the others. They headed out in a line, the gates of the yard opening in front of them, and joined the traffic in the streets. They headed for the same gate they had come in a few days ago, many in the crowds stopping to watch them as they went by. The wagons were unadorned, but no doubt the heavily armoured travellers were attracting attention. They rode without incident, slowly passing through the gates as they were inspected and waved through after brief inspections. As they left the walls they were joined by two wagons bearing the seal of the guard corps, the beds packed with guardsmen sitting close. The five talked now, Naran and Winifred sharing what information they could find.
The mine they were heading to was one of many, every other decade or so there would be a discovery of a vein of something or other, and there would be a rush. Competing mines would appear overnight, sites practically chosen at random, looking for nearby veins to plunder as villages would appear to support them, and just as quickly both would be abandoned when veins ran dry or exploratory digs turned up nothing of value. It was often cheaper to leave them open than to properly seal or collapse them, leaving them ripe for habitation by wandering creatures. This one had been a success, a rich vein of copper found and emptied over three decades before being abandoned just a few years previous. That meant it would run deep, but there would be less risk of collapse at least. The weevils were likely to have added their own tunnels, bare teeth and claws digging through the rock inch by inch.
They arrived at the main entrance, clearly once used as a great staging area. There were still some rusted carcasses of equipment, overgrown and near hidden, but the area in front of the small hill before them was wide and flat, ideal for their meeting. They gathered around the Skull Smashers and Uzul, the orc directing them where to stand, each group from the House set to stand with a squad from the corps.
“…and squad four with the greenhorns. Right then, plan’s simple. Me and the lads and Squad One” he acknowledged the guards with a gesture. They were the most heavily armoured, heavy plate and shields ready “will be taking the main entrance, acting as spear point. Flint’s Gold Diggers and Squad Two” he gestured to the dwarf’s group and a group of guards bearing heavy shields but lighter armour “will follow us in, take care of any side tunnels might be a bit cramped. Squad Three and the Overlords” he signalled to the bronzed armours and a group of halberd wielding guards “will be taking the rear exit, used to be for hauling out rubble and junk so plenty wide. Come on through and meet us in the middle.” The figures in armour saluted without words, banging weapons against shields in a clatter. “Lastly, new guys and greenhorns, easy job for you. Scouts found one other entrance isn’t totally collapsed, looks to be an old emergency exit. Just gotta sit outside, anything buggy tries to crawl out, you put it down.” The five looked at the guards they were to accompany. They had the nervous energy of amateurs, with the false cockiness of ones trying to appear tough. “Any questions?” He ignored the few hands beginning to rise. “Very good then, on to your wagons and pop a flare once you’re in position. Yellow for ready, red’s for if you come under attack or get into trouble, green from us is the all clear. Good luck all, and first rounds on whoever gets bled first!”
There was a silent acknowledgement, and those moving to different locations mounted up. The five rode in silence again, nervously checking their gear once more as the wagon hitched and bumped over rough roads, a path around the hill long abandoned and left uncleared. They travelled around the hill, eventually alighting at a small flat outcrop. The wagon driver sat back, idly watching them. One of the guards took down a wooden crate, and took out a flare tube. The paper tube was pointed up, the string pulled, and a dull yellow light sailed into the air, trailing smoke. A few moments later, there was an answering flare off to one side, then two more side by side to another side. They stood ready near the overgrown exit, awaiting any activity. The barely visible tunnel was barely wide enough for a grown man, though tellingly there were some old boards that had been broken in pieces and scattered away. The guards resisted Felix’s attempts at friendly chat, staring silently as they stood in a line, halberds standing by their side. A few minutes after the flares had gone up there was a distant boom, followed by a distant rumbling. The tunnel before them shook, a few small pebbles falling as they exchanged looks. They looked at each other, and scanned the sky, but there was no signs of flares.
They sat for a while, or paced, or stood, nervous energy building. It was not what they had expected. There was no sign of activity, and no sign of flares in the sky. Not quite the auspicious start they had expected. Wakesfield was the only island of calm. He sat on the rear of the wagon, facing the entrance. His rifle was across his lap, but he held a book in both hands, reading as calmly as if he was sitting on a roadside camp.
“Not very interestin’ is it?” voiced Felix aloud.
“It’s easy money, we should be so lucky” replied Wakesfield without looking up.
“Are we truly earning our fee? We are not contributing much” said Fuath, radiating a mix of concern and boredom.
“We do the job we were given” replied Winifred, her voice calm and firm. Her body language betrayed her frustration, her leg stamping incessantly as she idly rubbed Culann’s ear a touch too vigorously.
Naran was silent, examining the entrance. She held up a scrap of cloth, buried in the dirt beside a broken plank. “People were taken inside here. It is not unused.”
They all looked at her, and even the guards craned forward. She stood and turned, looking at the scrap in her hands as she approached one of the guards. “How many are believed to be taken by the weevils?”
One of the guards coughed nervously. “A dozen and four, last few days. Anyone else is either unrelated or long dead.”
The five exchanged a look as one of the guards broke rank. “Look the latest was taken more than a day ago, odds are they’re long dead by now!”
Winifred was the first to move forward. She took the scrap from Naran, and held it for Culann, whistling a command. Track and follow. There was no murmur of agreement between them, no vote nor meaningful exchanged looks. Each simply moved as their minds and conscience dictated.
The five donned the helmets they had bought, and lit the small lights. Of the eight guards, three looked at each other, and followed, ignoring the words of their comrades. In a single line they marched, into the cramped tunnel, down into the dark.
